


The List

by Talithax



Category: Mission: Impossible - Ghost Protocol (2011)
Genre: Fade to Black, Friendship/Love, M/M, POV First Person
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-01
Updated: 2013-01-01
Packaged: 2017-11-23 05:40:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,759
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/618719
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Talithax/pseuds/Talithax
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>... What starts off as going wrong, terribly wrong, ends on an unexpected positive note with a promise of things to come.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The List

**Author's Note:**

> This has slight... angst-lite.... undertones but at its heart (and consider this a warning!) it's a mushy little love story.
> 
> Self beta'd. Narrated by Ethan.
> 
> And... posted on New Years Day because, hey, it offers -- albeit at the ending! -- a nice... new beginning.

=========  
The List  
by TalithaX  
=========

It's always the same.

From the very first time you encounter it outside of the essentially safe confines of training to right now, as the all too familiar stench assails your nostrils and your brain revolts at the hideous images laid out before your eyes, it never changes.

Your breath catches in your throat, your stomach clenches and for all of a split second, although it always feels like much, much longer, you want to scream.

Then you remember who you are, what you do and the reason you're in such a situation in the first place, and carefully trained into you instinct kicks in and you just...

Put everything else aside, go in guns blazing if that's what's required, and simply hope for the best.

Again, it's always the same.

The mission and your training comes before everything – and everyone – else. It has to. You have to distance yourself from the scene before you and just do your job. If you can't, if you can't flick an invisible switch and immediately make your feelings secondary to the task at hand, then, simply put, you're in the wrong line of work.

I'm not saying it's easy, as it's not. It really isn't. The things I've seen they can't, not even with the assistance of a never ending supply of either alcohol or – illicit or otherwise – drugs, ever be unseen. They can be buried deep inside, and I freely confess that I've become something of an expert at burying events I don't want to be reminded of, but they never truly leave you. They're always there, just lurking below the surface and popping up in the form of nightmare here or there when you last expect it.

But, whatever. That's life. What's more, it's my life. The one I chose for myself and the one, moments like this aside, that I neither regret nor have any intention of changing. This is what I do. Who I am. I'm cool in the face of a crisis, I do what I have to do, and...

If I'm too late and he's dead, all hell is going to break fucking loose. It won't change anything. It won't even make me feel any better. I know that. What I also know however is that if this doesn't end well it would be a brave – make that suicidal – man to get in my way as it's not going to be pretty.

All in the name of political correctness and an arguably pointless – given that when it's real it's very real – softly, softly approach, what I'm currently staring, wide eyed and dry mouthed at is referred to as an 'interrogation' room during training. 'Torture' would be more apt, and God knows it's the term we all use – in the real world – post-training, but the Powers That Be, safe in both their delusions and their offices, don't want to hear it, don't even really want to contemplate its existence. Most, that is the with exception of the straight-from-college-wouldn't-know-a-Sig-from-a-Glock suits who think they can save the world from safe inside the confines of a conference room, have even been in the midst of it at one time or another and you'd think should know at the end of the day that what we do can't be sugar coated. But, no. 'Torture' is out, and 'interrogation' is in. It doesn't even matter to the 'i' dotting, 't' crossing, policy-writing wannabe politicians that 'torture' is – correct – more apt because all they're concerned about is glossing over one of the many harsh realities that go hand in hand with what we do.

Sure, sometimes the... interrogation... is solely in the name of trying to get information out of you. More often than not though, and there's no denying it regardless of the spin the PTB want to try to put on it, it's simply... torture... for the sake of torture. They – the generic 'bad guys' – have, granted, usually for good reason if they've come to the attention of IMF and you've become a thorn in their side in your pursuit of them, something against you personally. Failing that, they couldn't care less who you were but, hey, as you're wanting to fuck with their operations you're just fair game. Then there's the sick fucks who'll strap you to a chair and rip off your fingernails for no other reason than, to them anyway, it's a form of entertainment. If they happen to get anything out of you in the process then, really, that's just a bonus.

I've been there more often than I'll even admit to myself. I've also seen it with an alarming degree of regularity. 

The locations and the victims and the implements might change, but you never get used to it, never grow immune to the sense of both horror and despair it installs in you. How can a person do this to another person? Just what sort of wicked world do we live in anyway? Just... Why?

The day it makes sense to me or I fail to be moved by what's before me is the day I throw in the towel and quit.

Taking a deep breath, I survey the room from my position just outside the doorway and quickly take stock of what, only a second or two from now, I'm going to be walking into. Windowless. Not overly large. Only one way in and out. Bench. Table. Chair. Nowhere to hide. Two bodies, not counting – pleaseGodlethimstillbealive – the one strapped to the chair. One definitely dead. The brain and skull matter spread all over the wall confirming this even better than his complete lack of movement. The other one, still alive but bleeding out from two bullet wounds in the chest and posing no threat. No sounds of movement coming down the corridor. Benji and Jane already safely back at the rendezvous point and awaiting further orders.

Safe.

Or as safe as it's ever likely to get.

Entering through the doorway with my gun raised, I ignore the almost surreal sensation of my heart feeling as though it's trying to beat through my chest and, on legs that feel as though they're disconnected from my body, make my way across the floor to the heavy wooden chair taking pride of place in the middle of the room.

Again, it just never fucking changes.

There's always a chair. Always. Solid, usually with wrist and ankle restraints built into the design, and never going to win any style awards.

And there's always a body strapped to it. Always. Usually half naked and with trails of blood dribbling out from under the too tight restraints. Sometimes alive, sometimes barely clinging to live, and sometimes dead.

Most of the time you can't even tell if they're still alive until you're next to them and reaching out a shaky hand to hopefully find a pulse.

I can't tell if he's alive.

Beaten. Bruised. Bloody. Head slumped forward and still, very still.

I want to scream, but know that I can't. Not because it would be out of character for an IMF agent of my alleged rank, but because if I started I'm not entirely sure I'd be able to stop.

I've been here before. I know what I'm doing. Whatever the outcome is, it's not going to change anything. If I'm too late I'm too late. All I have to do is look for a pulse. I don't, not really, as finding a pulse is the most important thing, have to gently tilt the head back to check for an entrance wound in the forehead. I don't want to tilt the head back for fear of...

I...

What I do have to do is get a fucking grip and just get on with it. Dithering isn't, after all, going to achieve a damn thing.

Offering a silent prayer to a God I no longer believe in, I carefully slide my fingers along his blood slicked throat and quite literally hold my breath until, albeit weak, I find it.

A pulse.

“Yes!” I exclaim, holstering my gun and quickly making short work of unbuckling all the cuffs keeping him strapped to the chair. “Hang in there, Will,” I continue breathlessly as, both slowly and gingerly, I pick up his limp body and, after radioing Benji to inform him that the mission has been a success and that we're on our way, begin to carry him out of the room. “I've got you and you're safe. I... I know you can't hear me, that, hey I've never done anything to give you cause to even think it, but, I... I just want you know that I...uh... love you... I do. I love you and you've got to hang in there.”

What's more, I do.

It's ridiculous, given that he's deeply unconscious and – I lack the courage to so much as raise the subject, let alone say it to his face – I'm essentially just talking to myself, but I actually feel better for having said it. Calmer, even.

He's alive.

I said it.

It's a start.

~*~

“I promise I'll call if there's a change in his condition.” Opening the door, I fix Benji with a look that I really hope he translates to mean 'seriously, I've given you my word to call so, please, whatever you do, don't ask again' and gesture him out into the corridor. “Go on. Both of you, go and get some rest.”

“You know where to find us,” Jane murmurs, trailing her fingers lightly along my arm as, with one last look at Will as he lies asleep on the hospital bed, she slips from the room. “Come on, Benji. I don't know about you but I could do with a drink.”

“A drink? A... drink?” Benji repeats, laughing as he allows Jane to link her elbow around his. “Try at least three. I've had a worrying day, you know.”

Glancing over her shoulder, Jane rolls her eyes at me and, grinning, bumps Benji with her hip. “You've... had a worrying day?” she mutters as, with one final wave, they start to walk side-by-side down the corridor. “And I've had... what... exactly? A day of sunshine, ice cream and kittens?”

Smiling both at their banter and the fact they're still capable of it after the day we've all had, I push the door shut and return to the chair by the bed. Silence, blissful in its simplicity, reigning supreme over the room, I flop down into the chair and – solely because I'm safe in the knowledge that he won't be aware of it – gently close my hand around Will's as it rests on top of the bedding. The doctors and nurses having done their thing and Jane and Benji having eventually got the hint that their company, while appreciated, is no longer required, I'm alone with Will and finally feel as though I can begin to relax. His injuries, unpleasant and as painful as they might be, are only superficial, the reason he was so deeply unconscious was courtesy of some drug or other in his system, not anything more medically serious, and the doctors are already making noises about him only needing to be in overnight.

So... All's well that ends well.

Only... It's not over. Not really. The mission, the real, bigger picture mission isn't anywhere near over. The two I left dead in the room were only the local, hired help. Grunts, in other words, sourced locally to do their dirty work. The head of the cartel, a long term pain in IMF's ass and our ultimate aim, was long gone by the time we got there and the mission won't be truly over until we either have him in custody or – and I'd be lying if I didn't own up to this being my preferred option – he's wearing a toe-tag. I should, even now, be tracking leads or planning our next move instead of just sitting here doing, well, nothing.

Being, if I do say so myself, of reasonable intelligence, I am actually capable of multi-tasking. I could, if I wanted to, keep one eye on Will – who, let's face it, isn't going anywhere and neither knows nor cares that I'm here anyway – and the other on the iPad Benji very kindly made sure he left me. The thing is though, I don't want to. Duty and logic and, okay, a stronger desire than ever before to nail the bastard tells me that I shouldn't stop, that I need to push ever forward, but... Not only don't I want to, nor can I currently be bothered. I just don't have it in me. This time last year, hell, even six months ago it would have been go, go, go. Can't stop, can't even pause, nothing else matters other than the mission.

Nothing.

Not physical or mental well being. Not – God forbid – feelings. Definitely not the small, insignificant really – until the time comes when it's not and you're left not knowing how to handle it – concept of there being a... life... outside of IMF.

Maybe I'm getting older than I care to admit. Maybe I've just been knocked out one too many times and my brain's rerouted itself entirely of its own accord. Who knows? Maybe it's simply time for a change and somehow I've come to realise it. Don't get me wrong. I like what I do. In fact, I live for my job and have no regrets in relation to any of it. But at the same time I'm slowly coming to accept that there's more to it. More to always being on the go and never stopping to contemplate your life for fear of what you might discover you're missing.

I could blame Will for it, this mid life crisis or just whatever the fuck it is I seem to be experiencing, but, really, it's not his fault at all. He might, both unknowingly and unwillingly, be the catalyst for my current mindset, but that would be the extent of his involvement. He's the innocent party in the equation. It certainly wouldn't be fair of me to lay the blame at his feet for the fact that, over the eighteen months we've worked together now, I've changed and my priorities are no longer quite so one-hundred percent IMF orientated. 

It's just me.

Will's ignorant – most likely blissfully, at that – of the effect he now has on me and I can't for the life of me decide whether this is for the best or not. His 'next time I seduce the rich guy' statement in Mumbai being as much of – 'take me as I come' – declaration as it was a joke, I know that on that side of things I have as much a chance with him as anyone. So it's not my sex or even a fear of being knocked back that stops me from making a move. Pathetically, it's more a fear of unsettling the working-in-perfect-harmony status quo of our team and running the risk of ruining it simply for the sake of either my libido or my newly discovered delusion of... wanting more. I would rather – keep my crush to myself – things stay exactly as they are than upset the team dynamic. Besides, given that Will's so adept at keeping his true feelings hidden – to the point where I'm still yet to beat him at poker and actually don't think I ever will – I have absolutely no idea how he'd even react. He seems to like me well enough, and I definitely think he'd call me a close friend, but that could easily be all there is to it. He's certainly – unless you count 'if your arrogant, I-can-climb-anything stupidity and blatant lack of respect for heights gets you killed then, I'm telling you now, I'll be the first in line to dance on your Goddamn grave' being shouted at you as a coded declaration of affection – not given any indication of being interested, so...

It's just me, then.

And I can live with that. Possibly not overly happily, but I can. I can, after all, play the role of hiding my true feelings as well as I can any of the roles IMF have handed to me on a platter over the years. Sadly, it's quite instinctual.

Choking back a sigh, I lean back in my chair and, in doing so, find myself gazing at a small collection of items placed neatly on top of the bedside table. I know, without having to inspect them in any great detail, that they'd be the contents of Will's pockets and that either Benji or Jane would have ensured that they'd retrieved them from the... interrogation... room. Pens, three today, all disposable and without either any monetary or sentimental value. While some people take the old saying of never leaving the house without clean underwear on to heart, Will, I swear, feels the same way about never going anywhere without a pen. Last Christmas Jane filled an entire shoebox with pens for him as a – joke – present and I honestly think he thought it was the most thoughtful gift he'd ever received. Wallet. Black leather and not without value, but a means to carry cash, nothing more. If I were to pick it up and open it I wouldn't find any age-worn photographs hidden in any of the card slots or even a driver's license. Our true identity being a role we rarely get to play, nothing we ever carry on us is ever truly... ours. Even if there were photographs or a loyalty card for a coffee shop in his wallet they wouldn't be real and would only be there to reinforce yet another fake identity or cover story.

Noticing, carefully folded into a square and positively screaming of being Will's handiwork, a piece of paper next to the wallet, curiosity quickly gets the better of me and I reach out with my free hand to pick it up. Gently unfolding it, I skim read the contents of the note, all written in Will's neat script, and, having absolutely no idea what I'm reading, shake my head.

28-2 D 0%  
05-04 F 5%  
27-05 R 20%?  
12-07 D 0%

It's in a code that I'm sure means something to Will, and it's clear by the lines in the paper made by how many times he's refolded it that he's been carting it around with him for a while, but as to what it could possibly translate to is beyond me.

Refolding the note, I return it to the bedside table and, because it suddenly strikes me as the right thing to do, smile. 

“You can't hear me, which I'm fine with, by the way, and on the strength of that note I have to confess to not understanding you very well, but, you know, I really do think I love you...”

~*~

I wake, pretty much as always, actually, with a start. It doesn't matter where I am, and this includes the all too rare times when I'm at home in my own bed, as it's always the same. I jolt to consciousness and my mind immediately starts to – just call me cautious... or paranoid, there's really little difference in my line of work – run through a check list. Did I wake naturally, or did something wake me? Did I hear or sense something – movement, a gun being cocked? Do I even know where I am? Am I safe? What do I last remember before going to sleep or, if the case may be, being knocked unconscious? It's not a particularly pleasant way to wake up, and there are some days when I feel as though I'd give just about anything to simply be able to wake up, stretch and go about my business without playing a silent game of Q&A first, but, whatever. My life is what it is and at the end of the day I have no one to thank for it other than myself.

So...

Something woke me. The sound of movement. I'm in a private hospital room keeping watch over Will. I'm fairly confident I'm safe and the excitement of watching him sleep must have been so great that it caused me to doze off.

Satisfied with my answers, I open my eyes, straighten myself up a little from my slumped position in the chair and gaze with a mixture of bemusement and astonishment at Will as, both frowning in concentration and really not looking as though he should even be up in the first place, he stands on the other side of the bed. 

“Going somewhere?” I query, issuing forth with the first, non – 'get back into bed this instant!' – lecturing, thing to pop into my head.

“My sense of duty not quite stretching that far,” Will replies with a shrug, “I'm not going anywhere if I can't find a pair of trousers.”

“Oh.” If he's surprised to find me A) in the room with him, or, B) awake and staring at him as though he's lost the plot, he's doing a good job of disguising it and I watch with mounting disbelief as he – unsteadily, mind you – systematically searches the room for clothing. “Okay.” I've got to get to the bottom of this one way or another. “Assuming you could find trousers, and I'm not yet sure I want to help you in this respect, where were you planning on going?”

“Florence,” he replies matter-of-factly. “I... we, actually... need to get to Florence.”

Seeing as we're currently in Rome, of course we do. Silly me. I don't even know what made me ask.

Oh. That's right. The fact that he's injured and by all rights should still be in bed.

“Florence,” I repeat, running my fingers through my hair and fixing Will with an expectant look. “Okay. I'll bite. Why do we have to go to Florence?”

“Because that's where Rinaldi is meeting the possible buyer. If we hurry we can still get there in time to crash the meet.”

“Oh.” Rinaldi being, of course, the long term thorn in IMF's side and the hirer of the grunts who hurt Will. “And... He just told you this?”

“No.” Will gives me a strange look, as though he's not quite convinced I actually believe him. “He told those other two that he was having to leave me in their capable hands while he went to Florence to meet Patterson.”

My attention caught hook, line and sinker by the name of Rinaldi's buyer, I jump to my feet and hurry around the bed to stand next to Will. “Patterson? Patterson's the buyer?”

“I thought that would get your attention,” Will responds with a grim smile. “So, come on. Swallow the lecture I just know you're wanting to give me, the one you know I'm only going to ignore, accept that I'm feeling just about well enough to be up to this and will probably sleep during the journey anyway, and help me find some clothes.”

He's got me, and he knows it, but I've still got to ask. “But... Rinaldi doesn't make mistakes. Why would he just let slip where he was going while you were there?”

Shrugging, Will gives me a wry look and lightly places his hand on my arm. “Because I'm very good at playing dead, that's why.”

Deliberately choosing not to read anything – as in the truth behind it – in Will's explanation and simply deciding to go with the gift of incredible intel being handed to me, I grin and nod. “I knew there was a reason I loved you! So, come on, let's go find you some clothing before swinging by the motel and picking up the others.”

~*~*~*~*~

It's now, both definitely and bloodily, over. The toe-tag is being applied to Rinaldi even as I dry myself and Patterson, the very much unexpected bonus in all of it, is enjoying a nice, peaceful – read, drugged to the eyeballs and sandwiched between two neckless oafs employed by IMF solely for their bulk and 'fuck with me and die, puny creature' attitude – flight back to Washington before being slapped into a cell and left to rot. Result wise, it's been a productive thirty-eight hours. Rinaldi's dead, Patterson's captured, the remaining members of the cartel have been scared shitless and are now scattered on the wind, their cache of drugs, weapons and cash have been accounted for, and all of it is already consigned to history. Mission complete.

It didn't, however, come without a cost. Of course not. It never does.

We pay it though. All in the ever-important name of the greater-good, we always do.

Benji's in hospital after having taken his first bullet. Non life threatening and more a shock than anything else, but still... He was shot and just because luck or whatever was on his side today it doesn't lessen the impact, or the niggling, insidious thought process of 'what could have been...' He could have died. He didn't, and he's going to be fine, but he easily could have. Benji being Benji, he's already – brushing it aside, pretending it didn't happen – making light of it and jokingly referring to the scar he'll now carry on his thigh as a mark that he's now truly made it as a field agent. Jane, who's busily quashing her own Hanaway shaped demons and the never-really-leaves-you memory of watching a friend and colleague die in front of you, has got on board with Benji's chosen blasé reaction and is promising to have the bullet made into a trophy for him. A 'My First Bullet' memento, if you like. Something, I'm sure, to both treasure and take pride of place on your shelf.

But, whatever. To each their own and all that. It's got nothing to do with me and, besides, it's working for them. So, really, who am I to even offer an opinion?

Will, who needless to say, shouldn't have left hospital as early as he did and who, if I hadn't been so instantly focussed on the thought of finally being able to snare Patterson, I should have insisted stay there, is one small step away from falling-where-he-stands exhausted. Well, that is he was. As he – reluctantly – left Benji in Jane's care and came back to the safe house from the hospital with me, I hope he's already safely in bed and sound asleep. He dozed off in the car during the drive and if – suspicion and paranoia weren't second nature to me – I knew the neighbourhood at all I might have been willing to just leave him there. As it was, too tired myself to try to carry him inside, I felt like a complete ass for having to wake him and can only hope, once he made it upstairs and stumbled through the shower, that he was able to go straight back to sleep.

He shouldn't, and, really, there are no two ways of looking at it, have been out – of hospital – in the field with us. In pain, suffering the light-headed and slightly dithery feeling from the residue of the unknown drug in his system, but... wanting to be there, wanting to play his part. Having been in the same situation myself – hell, we all have as, again, it's simply a component of what we do – all I could do was close myself off from his, in this instance, faults and just hope for the best. The gamble, although calling it that is a bit of stretch as all I essentially did was accept – with reservations – his desire to do his job, paid off and, not that it was ever really in doubt, he successfully did everything he had to.

As for me, I'm in that post-mission come-down zone of simply going through the motions before finally getting to collapse into bed and hopefully not lying awake for hours going over and over it all in my head. I'm tired, not as exhausted as Will but not far off it either, and as mission's go there's no escaping the fact we've all been through worse. It's just that it wasn't without – minor, admittedly – casualties, that's all, and as team leader I can't help but feel personally responsible. Will shouldn't have been placed in the situation where he was easy pickings for Rinaldi's men. Benji shouldn't have been shot.

Same old, same old. Nothing, despite the best intentions, is ever perfect. I know that, just as I know I should be thankful that, a little battered and battle scarred, we're all still here. And I am, incredibly so. It's just that...

Sighing, I hang the towel on the rack and pull on the boxers and t-shirt I'm going to sleep in. The preliminary report is done and already in the hands of those it needs to be, the safe house is locked up tight, Jane's called to confirm she'll stay the night with Benji and will see us at breakfast, I've had my shower and, there being nothing else I can think of doing, it's now time for bed. It not even eight o'clock in the evening, the sun is still shining and the pillow is calling my name so strongly that even the few short steps from the bathroom to the bedroom seem like miles. Once upon a lifetime ago I'd celebrate the successful completion of a mission by going out on the town. When that became tiring, when I'd sowed all my wild oats that I'd wanted to – or, failing that, when I became a little older and a lot more jaded – I moved onto having a few, or a lot, depending on who I was with, drinks with my team. Now, regardless of the time of day or night, I pretty much just want to go to bed and, what's more, I don't even care.

Leaving the bathroom, I pass the door to the room Will's claimed for himself and come to a stop. For a second or two I toy with the idea of opening the door and checking to see that he's okay. Not wanting to appear – creepy – overbearing though, I resist the urge and, yawning, continue along the corridor to my room. Opening the door, I step through it and, finding a very unexpected surprise sitting on the foot of the bed, come to a very flat footed halt.

Will.

Dressed in black pyjama pants and a grey t-shirt, and holding that small piece of paper I read in his hospital room in his hands, he looks even more exhausted than he did when I saw him to his bedroom an hour or so ago, and I...

I don't know what to say, what to do.

I know what I want to do, but something in Will's appearance stops me. Not one to do anything without thinking it carefully through first, he's here because he wants to be which, in turn, means he's the one in charge.

Why he wants to be here, however, is anyone's guess.

And, pathetically, I feel far more nervous now than I did scaling the wall into Patterson's compound.

Slowly turning his head to face me, Will sighs and, as the paper slips from his fingers onto the floor, stands up. “I apologise in advance if what I'm about to do strikes you as crazy or gives you cause for concern in respect to my mental state,” he declares cryptically, keeping his gaze trained on a random spot on my chest as he makes his way towards me, “but, I... I have to do it. I can't keep going over it in my head without at least trying to do something about it...”

“Will...” Realising that stating the obvious – 'I hope you know I have no idea what you're on about' – wouldn't achieve anything, I fall silent and wait for whatever it is that's going to happen to... happen. 

“This... I have to do this,” Will continues softly as, looking me shyly in the eye, he does just about the last thing I would have expected and wraps his arms around me for a tight embrace. “I know it's a cop out, that it's the hardly the stuff of fantasies, but... but it's all I have in me at the moment, all I have to offer, so... Sorry. I'm sorry I can't do...”

“Hey... Shhh...” Sliding one arm around his back in order to keep him place should he decide to make a sudden bolt for it, I use my free hand to gently place my finger against his lips. “There's nothing to apologise for. You... You're here. That's all that matters.”

Tilting his head back, Will looks at me with a hopeful – if a little cautious – expression on his face. “Really?” he murmurs, relaxing against me as I drop my arm to join the other one around his back. “I mean, this isn't exactly... exciting or...”

“It's perfect,” I interrupt just a tad breathlessly as the implications of what's actually happening hits me. Will's made the first move. Instead of just living in his own head and hiding behind a wall of doubt, he's made a decision and shown his hand.

And he's interested.

He's interested in me and for that reason alone all the events of the past few days pale in to insignificance and I suddenly feel like the luckiest man alive.

“It's perfect,” I repeat, planting a quick kiss on the top of his head as, apparently accepting that I'm telling the truth, Will tightens his hold on me and rests his cheek against mine.

A hug may not be sexy or even a form of foreplay, but right at this moment I wouldn't exchange it, or a single thing about it, for anything. Not for hot and heavy sex, not for the most mind blowing orgasm, not even the arguably dull location of an IMF safe house in Florence. It's all-too human, both real and gloriously warm, and above everything else it's... innocent. Comfort in the form of physical contact when you're both too tired to be capable of anything else. A promise too, of things to come, but for now that's not even something to be contemplated.

Now it's all about the tired man slumped willingly in your arms and hugging you back as though his life depended on it. Nothing needs to be said, just as nothing more needs to be done.

It's just perfect.

It really is.

~*~

The traditional thought process that follows sleep slipping away is, for once, both exceptionally fast and even more exceptionally pleasant. Bed, Will, and – miracle of miracles – it's real. It's really real. Not that I'm one for wild flights of imagination or anything like that, but it could have... it wouldn't even have particularly surprised me... been all a dream. If, for example, I'd woken alone I would have instantly been prone to accept that it had never happened, that for the first time in my life a dream had been so realistic that for an all too brief moment it felt real.

But I haven't woken alone.

Still sound asleep and draped around me, Will's exactly where he was when I went to sleep.

Oh. And the reason I'm awake is because of my bladder and its infuriatingly inconvenient need to be emptied.

But that, however, can wait. Possibly not for long, granted, but for a moment at least. Just long enough to contentedly go over what it took to land in this much-longed for position and to luxuriate in the feeling of Will's body next to mine.

Will, who fell asleep in my arms while we were embracing and who, as I helped him down onto the bed, woke up just long enough to mumble, “Please believe when I say that I'm not usually this boring in bed,” before yawning, draping himself around me the second I joined him under the bedding, and promptly going straight back to sleep. I wanted to stay awake, to bask in the both unexpected and wonderful situation I'd – with no actual personal input, I might add – found myself in, but despite my best attempts I was asleep within minutes. Not, mind you, that I'm complaining. God no. Not about any of it. Sex, I'm sure, would have been nice. It would have even been arguably more... normal... an outcome given our age and the general consensus that the male population thinks first and foremost with their genitalia. I wouldn't, however, change what happened even if I could.

Besides, everything else will come in due course. I'm not saying I'm counting on it, but I'm definitely looking forward to it.

My bladder not giving up on its insistent demands for my attention, I bite back a sigh and reluctantly squirm away from Will. Although he mumbles some sort of incoherent complaint at the loss of his body-shaped pillow, he doesn't wake and promptly resettles himself. Standing up, I stretch broadly and hurry out of the room and down the corridor to the bathroom. Once I've done what I very much needed to do, I wash my hands, check my watch to confirm that it's still far too early to return to the hospital for breakfast with Jane, and hotfoot it back to the bedroom. 

Entering the room, I notice Will's piece of paper with its curiously cryptic notes on it lying on the floor and, without really thinking about it, bend down and pick it up. If I'd had a plan it would have simply been to place it on the bedside table so that, if he was looking for it, he could find it easily. Spotting that he's added to it since I saw it in the hospital though throws me and, this time... really... without thinking, I sink down on the foot of the bed to read the additions.

04-08 R/H 90%?  
04-08? H 90%?  
04-08? F 30%

These... nonsensical, to me anyway... notes are written below what I'd read the other day and, just like the first time I'd encountered them, they mean absolutely nothing to me. In fact, I doubt I could take a stab at decoding them even if my life depended on it.

Too focussed on both the contents of the piece of paper in my hands and trying to convince myself that, yes, having Benji work on decrypting them would be – an invasion of privacy – a very bad idea, I don't know that Will's awake and kneeling behind me until he drapes his arms over my shoulder and plants a moist kiss on the side of my neck. 

“You only have to ask, you know,” he murmurs, yawning as, making himself comfortable draped over my back, he flicks his finger against the paper. “While I might have secrets, that list isn't one of them.”

“So, it's a list, then,” I reply before, realising what I'd just said, shaking my head. “Not... Uh... That I've really paid it all that much attention.”

“Mmm... Of course you haven't.” Chuckling, I swear directly in my ear so goosebumps break out across my flesh in response to the tickling sensation of his warm breath ghosting across the side of my face, Will flicks the paper again and repeats, “You only have to ask.”

“If it's private,” I protest, closing my hand around his and squeezing it in an attempt to disguise my eagerness to get to the bottom of the cryptic note, “or...”

“It's private,” Will interrupts with another chuckle, “but it's also about you, so, really, you could say you have a right to know.”

Taken slightly aback by Will's... bombshell... I look down at the note again and, feeling even more clueless in regards to what it might mean that I did a second ago, shake my head. “It... is? But...”

“It's in code.”

“No. Shit.”

“Code breaking not your forte then?”

“You know it isn't.”

“Okay then,” Will murmurs as, with a quick kiss on my cheek, he resettles himself in a sitting position next to me on the mattress. “Let me explain it to you. See the first column? That's a date. The last two have a question mark next to them because... interrogation... and hospital rooms have an unfortunate habit of making time lose all meaning and I wasn't sure if I'd got the date right or not.”

“But...” I'll admit his explanation of the first row of numbers being dates makes sense, but at the same time they don't instantly look like dates.

“Trust me. They're dates. They're just, however, not written in the usual American way because, well, I wouldn't want to be too obvious now, would I...”

“Well, no. I suppose not.” Shuffling closer to Will so that our thighs are touching, I point at the second column. “And these?”

“D is for Drunk, F is for Facetious, R is for Rescue, you know, as in heat of the moment, and H is for Heartfelt,” Will explains softly, blushing ever-so-slightly as he glances at me. “And the last one, obviously, is... uh... the percentage of... viability... I attributed to it.”

I would really love to be experiencing one of those comic-style light-bulb-moments right about now in that everything Will's just told me makes perfect sense and I can now read his code with ease, but... Nope. Sadly it's just not happening. Pretty much at all, really. “So... On the twenty-eighth of February... February of this year, yeah?”

“Mmm... I didn't start straight away so, yes, this year.”

“You didn't start straight...” Trailing off for fear of my lack of insight dragging this out even longer, I shake my head and pull a face. “Okay. On the twenty-eighth of February, someone was drunk...”

“You. You were drunk. Or... If drunk sounds too harsh, you'd had a few.”

“Oh.” This is just getting better and better. “So, I had a few to drink on the twenty-eighth of February and I... said or did something that was one-hundred percent unbelievable.”

“That's a different way of looking at it but, yes. The alcohol killed any chance of it being... believable.”

Okay. Here goes nothing. To hell with falling into the trap of screamingly obvious, but I've just to ask. “Of... what... being believable?”

His blush intensifying, Will glances down at his knees and, in general, gives every impression of regretting having started this. “Of saying I love you,” he murmurs at last. “You're probably not even aware of it, but it just seemed to keep slipping out and... uh... you know me, something made me want to... chart it... before...” Pausing, he shrugs and flashes me a grim, vaguely embarrassed smile. “Well, before I'd either believe it or raise the courage to make my own feelings known...”

Both touched and relieved – understatement – by Will's surprising explanation, I drape my arm around his shoulders and, smiling, hug him to me. “I said it that often, yeah?”

He nods. “It certainly struck me as quite frequent. Frequent enough, at any rate, for me to both notice and, again, want to chart.”

“So... On the fifth of April I said it facetiously, in jest, and, probably quite rightly so, not a lot of truth could be attributed to it...”

“I'd just tracked Kristof, who you thought was in the wind, to his meet in Moscow, and...”

“I said I love you because I thought you were brilliant for having located the bastard,” I finish, nodding as the memory of the moment comes back to me. “We were in the hovel of a safe-house in Saint Petersburg, Jane had a cold, and I was stomping around like a bear with a sore head.”

“You were so bad that Benji was actively avoiding you,” Will adds, relaxing against me and resting his hand on my thigh. “Fun times.”

“Aren't they all?” I mutter with a grin as I point to the next date on the list. “The twenty-seventh of May, now... that was a particularly fun time, if I remember correctly.”

“Mmm... Impatient as always, you'd marched in without backup and got yourself captured,” Will replies, frowning at the memory. “We weren't far behind you though and they hadn't really put any effort into working you over yet, so... I only gave it twenty percent. Rescue is a hard one to attribute correctly because, let's face it, if the situation is bad enough and the Devil himself came to your aid you'd probably be so happy to see him that you'd think nothing of babbling that you love him.”

“Fair enough.” I point to the last three entries on the paper. “These though, these all relate to what happened in Rome, don't they?”

“When you rescued me,” Will whispers, resting his head on my shoulder and closing his eyes, “it sounded heartfelt, the most heartfelt I'd ever heard it. The same goes for that night... or day, I'm not sure... in the hospital. You sounded like you meant it and it was at that point that I decided enough was enough, that I could either just keep writing my stupid list or I could man up and finally let you know that I felt the same way. But... Hospitals, you know, aren't all that conducive to romance...”

Kissing the top of his head, I murmur, “But... I thought you were unconscious. Both in that... room... and in the hospital bed. I'm not saying I wouldn't have said it, as I would have, and you're right, I meant it more both of those times than any of the others, but...”

“Good at playing dead, remember?” Will offers, cutting me off. “I couldn't have moved or even spoken, but I wasn't as out of it as I looked. I could hear everything.”

“And while I'd have given anything for the circumstances to have been different,” I state softly, “I'm very glad that you did as it...”

“Got us to this point,” Will finishes, stifling a yawn as he opens his eyes and, smiling, looks up at me. “Random I love yous, cuddling like an old couple because we were both too exhausted to do anything else... As relationship starts go, we're going well, wouldn't you say?”

“Romance novelists of the world eat your hearts out,” I grin, laughing. “But, hey, everything's got to start somewhere.”

“That it does.” Grabbing my left wrist, Will reads the time on my watch before grinning wickedly and quite literally shoving me flat on the bed. “And I think I've got a good start in mind...”

~ end ~


End file.
